The Bow of Jonathan Affair
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The 'Mother Superior Tales' continues ...


#**Title: The "Bow of Jonathan" Affair (Bible scholars: 1 Samuel 18:3-4)**

Author: Mary Catherine Marshall Man from UNCLE, mid-1960's

Series: Continuation of the 'Mother Superior Tales'

Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual situations)

Archive: Yes, please!

Date: November, 2006

Disclaimer: Napoleon, Illya, Waverly, & UNCLE belong to other folks with a great deal of money. I borrow them for fun and zero profit. Sue if you like, but I'm a poor country preacher ...

Illya Kuryakin watched a particular window across the courtyard. From his vantage point, in the shadows slightly off to his left, he watched a young woman pacing, her cigarette tracing manic circles in the air, face animated, and mouth moving against the telephone receiver. His lip reading skills revealed a tirade not suited for the easily offended. He smiled.

The door behind him swished open. "Spying, IK?"

"Not I," he answered, grinning at the question. "Although I am rumored to be a professional."

"So I've heard," Napoleon said, flipping the light switch and hanging up his suit coat. He frowned at the stack of files on his desk. "I thought you were working today."

Illya ignored his partner. "She is very angry, Napoleon."

"She's always an inch off pissed, Illya, you know that. Probably caught the Henderson-Matthews case," Napoleon said, moving to stand behind his partner. "Yup, she's pissed."

"Henderson-Matthews?" Illya asked, turning from the window and bumping into Napoleon. "Sorry."

"No problem," the senior agent said, grinning at his partner. "We really need a bigger office, tovarisch. How, do you think, did she manage an entire suite of offices and we end up with this dump?" He searched his desk for the Henderson-Matthews file and tossed it to Illya. "Got trapped in Morocco. Carl Henderson made it out, Jeff Matthews didn't."

"Ah, yes," Illya said, pulling his black rimmed glasses from his pocket and dropping into his desk chair, "while I was away." He opened the file. "From what I know of Carl Henderson he is rather difficult." The blond Russian skimmed the file. "A larger office would not be unwelcome."

"Always the master of the understatement, on all fronts," Napoleon chuckled. "Henderson has always had a chip the size of Long Island on his shoulder and now this." He glanced out the window, half expecting to see Henderson's body in free-fall. "I'll order you to request larger quarters."

"Chip?" Illya asked, reading the summary page of the Morocco assignment.

"Chip," Napoleon repeated, trying to decide how to explain the concept. "Okay, he's got attitude. Plenty of attitude. Thinks he's the greatest thing since sliced bread."

Illya's eyebrow shot up.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "No bakery comments, please. Henderson thinks that I robbed him of CEA, not that he could handle the job. He thinks that you're a Commie. And, he thinks April slept her way into Section 2." Napoleon paused, watching his partner speed-read the file. "Tell me if you think he was at fault for what happened."

Illya grunted and flipped a page. "It appears … it appears that they made a rather unfortunate decision that contributed to Matthew's capture." More pages turned. "Um … the forensic team reports that Henderson sent Matthews in ahead of the assault team. Alone."

Napoleon shook his head. "Bastard."

Illya shrugged. "As you well know, Napoleon, decisions in the field are often questionable in hindsight. Perhaps this was one such decision." He glanced up. "As you are Chief Enforcement Office, I believe the requisition of larger quarters is your responsibility."

"Hindsight my ass, IK!" He was surprised at his ruthless partner making excuses for poor performance of any sort. "Anyway, I _order_ you to request larger quarters." Solo ducked as a pen barely missed his head. "Didn't your mother teach you not to throw pointed objects? You could've put out my eye!"

"My mother was too busy trying to stay alive, Napoleon, to worry about my throwing pointed objects," Illya said, returning to his reading. "Henderson reports that Matthews was attacked and that he went in to rescue him. That does not sound like an egotist, Napoleon." Illya grinned. "And, I believe that my skill throwing pointed objects is often appreciated."

"Yes, thank you, your skill with pointed objects is renowned." Napoleon frowned. "Henderson's report sounds like somebody that wants to keep his ass out of the fire," Napoleon said, glancing out the window. "She's on the balcony … sending smoke signals."

"Considering the potential outcomes of the collision of two people with what you call 'attitude', I may need to sleep at your place tonight." Illya leaned forward, glanced out the window, and grinned. "I remind you that I am obliged to follow your orders only when in the field."

"Since you've got three times as much 'attitude' as Henderson and nearly as much as our little neighbor," Solo laughed, inclining his head toward the window, "I seriously doubt that you'll need to sleep anyplace other than your own bed." He answered the ringing phone. "Solo." He grinned and pointed at Illya.

"Why, yes, Mrs. K., he's here. Neck deep in files. Lunch? Love to. Oh. Bring him along? I'm bereft, Em, absolutely bereft. All right, if you insist. 1 p.m. Tataglia's. Ciao."

"I cannot believe that you tried to make a date with my wife, in front of me!" Illya said, picking out another file.

"Sorry. Didn't know you were listening," Napoleon said, tossing the errant pen onto his partner's desk.

"I remind you, I am a spy," Illya said, closing the file and grinning at his partner. "Ruthless. Cold blooded. Deadly."

The phone rang again. "You're turn, IK. Consider it an order." The pen resumed its flight.

"Kuryakin."

"Mr. Waverly would like to see you immediately, Illya," Kristianna Blackstone said, her clipped British accent a joy to his ear. "Is Napoleon with you?"

"He is in our office," Illya said, making a face. "With me is another matter entirely."

"Understood. Please bring him along," Kristianna said her laughter light as she rang off.

"Business?" Napoleon asked, balancing the pen horizontally on his index finger.

"Either that or Mr. Waverly wishes to invite us to lunch," Illya said. He grabbed his rumpled suit coat and pulled it on over his equally rumpled white shirt, hiding his shoulder holster.

Dimitri Kuryakin glanced around the conference room and chuckled to himself. The tiny room was barely large enough to accommodate the scarred and battered dining room table that doubled as a conference table; much less, the 11 other agents huddled around it.

Eighteen months ago, Dimitri arrived in Riga, assigned at his request, to the fledgling Eastern European station. Alexander Waverly approved the transfer knowing the fall out from his number two agent, Dimitri's brother, Illya, would be considerable.

The reunion of the long separated brothers was the stuff of fairy tales, sheer terror capped with something of a happy ending. Dimitri and his two young daughters, Anya and Natasha, escaped to the United States and he joined UNCLE in Research and Development. While he enjoyed the challenge of his lab work, after a year he felt under-utilized, missing his association with the Intelligencia, an underground organization in the USSR.

With Illya's grudging support, Dimitri requested assignment to UNCLE's Survival School. Clearly, Illya expected his brother to join him in Section 2, but Dimitri requested the Riga transfer. Thus, the fall out anticipated by Waverly.

Working with his sister-in-law, Emerson Myer Cates, Dimitri completed guardianship arrangements for his daughters, made some modicum of peace with his brother, and departed for Riga.

Now the young, dark haired Russian met with his team to plan an assault on a suspected Thrush enclave. A truly important assignment, one that he hoped would make up for all the small, almost unimportant assignments already successfully completed. The twelve young men and women were eager to earn their stripes.

Mr. Waverly didn't ask them to lunch.

Napoleon glanced at his partner as Waverly explained the importance of the assignment and recognized that behind Illya's placid expression was pure frustration.

"You will be carrying extremely sensitive documents," Waverly said, nodding toward the black briefcase resting on the circular table. "Mr. Kuryakin, you will be in possession of the material until it is delivered to the Paris office. Once the case is attached to your wrist it cannot be removed without causing … considerable damage, shall we say." Illya flinched.

"Mr. Solo will be responsible for protecting the case and for seeing to its timely and proper delivery," Waverly said, toying with his pipe. "Understood?"

Napoleon shifted in his seat. "If I may ask, sir, why would Illya and I be assigned to a courier run?"

Waverly packed the bowl of his pipe and began a distracted search for his matches. "Why assign the two of you? Is that your question, Mr. Solo?"

Illya smirked.

"Yes, sir, that is my question."

The matches found, the elderly man puffed heartily on the pipe, producing a haze of blue smoke. "Quite simple, my boy," he said, nodding his head as if to convince himself. "Mr. Kuryakin is carrying the launch codes for all Western European nuclear missiles. Can't have just any Tom, Dick, or Harry doing that now, can we?"

Illya and Napoleon locked eyes for a second. "No sir, I guess not," Napoleon said, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention.

"Very well, then," Waverly said, turning to another stack of files. "Off with you!"

Emerson glanced up from her desk and smiled. Her best, 'welcome to my office' smile. "Come on in."

Carl Henderson filled the door. She estimated that he was at least 6 feet 8 inches tall and weighed well over 300 pounds. He reminded her of Jules Cutter, only much larger. Light blue eyes glowered and he ran his hand unconsciously over his closely cropped red hair. His neck bulged above the too tight collar of a white shirt.

"I'm here because I was ordered to come, you know that."

"Good to see you, too, Carl. Have a seat," she said, rising and pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Would you like anything?"

"Just want to get this over with," he said, folding his large frame into one of the leather wing chairs opposite her desk.

She paused a moment, gathering her thoughts and reigning in her temper.

"I know that this is not someplace you would choose to be, Carl, but it's standard procedure for every agent who looses a partner in the field. Once we've completed your debriefing to my satisfaction you will be reinstated to field work."

His huge fist pounded her desk. "'To **_your_** satisfaction? ' Don't threaten me, lady! Just because the Old Man thinks your shit don't stink doesn't mean that I do. Cut the bullshit and get on with it."

She put down her coffee cup and walked around to the front of her desk, leaning against it casually. She smiled and lit a cigarette blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

"Yes, Carl, to my satisfaction. Today we're going to get to know each other. The remaining sessions will be among the hardest work you've ever done. We're going to unpack the whole thing, piece by piece. I'm going to find out what really happened on this assignment, why you made the choices you did, and why Jeff died. Bluntly put, I'm going to make you squirm." She flicked an ash into the ashtray. "Understand?"

With more grace than she imagined possible he hoisted himself up and stood mere inches from her, his hands fisting as his face flushed with anger. "I understand that you think you've got me like a bug under a microscope, lady." He leaned even closer, shoving a finger under her nose. "**_You_** need to understand that I'm not going to let you fuck with me." He strode toward the door that did not open. "Open it! Now!"

She sipped her coffee, right foot crossed over left. "With pleasure," she said, pressing a button and watching the door glide silently open. "However, you should know that if you choose to leave you will be detained by security. They will take you to interrogation where you will undergo deconditioning that will end your usefulness to UNCLE." She arched an eyebrow. "Walk out that door and you'll never come back."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?" He covered the space between the door and her desk in two long strides, his right hand balled in a very large fist. She did not flinch.

"I know who I am, Carl. The question before us is; who are **_you_**? Why did your partner die on assignment when you came home without a scratch? What happened in Morocco and what didn't happen in Morocco?" She put the coffee cup down and stood up, less than a foot separating them. "And, for future reference, that's **_Reverend_** Bitch to you."

He drew back his fist.

"Strike me and all bets are off," she said, her voice calm, low, and threatening. Two large Section 5 agents stepped in.

"Ma'am?" one beefy young man asked. "Everything okay in here?"

"Agent Henderson, would you be so kind as to answer the question?" she asked, taking her desk chair.

Henderson glared at her and relaxed his arm. He glanced over his shoulder and took his seat. "Fine. Everything's just fucking fine."

She nodded at the agents. "We'll be right outside ma'am."

"Thank you." She smiled at Henderson. "Shall we begin?"

Gamma Team moved quietly through shadows cast by shipping crates and machinery, approaching an abandoned warehouse in a run-down section near the Riga docks. Dima's contacts in the Intelligencia reported a small but powerful Thrush enclave. The capture of a low level Thrush operative and hours of interrogation brought the three teams of agents to this location.

The Thrush captive was most forthcoming, detailing schedules, personnel, and the expected delivery of a considerable number of rocket launchers, machine guns, small arms, and munitions. Agents kept the building under surveillance over several days, verifying the information.

Chris Maynard and Lexie Donova, fellow Section 2 agents in the Riga office, and Dimitri made up Gamma Team. The remaining nine agents divided into Alpha and Beta teams and took up posts to the east and to the south, ready to move when signaled.

A quick check with team leaders revealed no activity other than the anticipated guards running on schedule. "Alpha, move in when ready," Chris said, watching the building through field glasses. Lexie checked her pack, counting explosive devices. Dimitri pulled his UNCLE P-38 from its holster and chambered a round.

"Alpha's in," Chris whispered. "Beta, move."

Gunfire erupted from the ground floor signaling the incursion of Beta Team. "Alpha to Gamma," Steve Morgan said breathlessly. "Targets at loading dock, west side of the building. No hostiles." Chris grinned at his team.

"Copy Alpha," he acknowledged. "Lady and gentleman, shall we?" The three agents moved out.

Beta Team joined Alpha Team and divided the building, sweeping each floor, eradicating pockets of resistance. Gamma Team met with no resistance as it moved toward the loading dock.

"Holy Mother of God," Chris said, his eyes roving over crates of guns and ammo stacked well above his head. "Enough stuff to start a small war and keep it going for months!"

Lexie dropped to her knees and unloaded her pack. "Let's find the bullets and explosives." She grinned. "Hell, with this much high explosive stuff we may only need a couple of our own. Chris, what's the time frame?"

The curly haired young man glanced at his watch. "Gamma to Alpha and Beta. Estimate time needed to complete the sweep."

"Alpha. 10 minutes should do it." Beta estimated 15 minutes.

"Give me 20," Chris said to Lexie, taking the offered devices. He paused and smiled. "Who taught demolition and explosives when you were at Survival School?"

She stopped counting and grinned at Dimitri. "Illya, of course. Why?"

Dimitri chuckled quietly, nodding his head. Chris grinned. "Napoleon calls it the 'IK Prerogative'." Lexie looked confused.

"If we say 20 minutes you will follow the Prerogative, which means 15 minutes. Kuryakin is infamous for shaving at least 5 minutes off every estimate."

Lexie frowned. "That's because the lead agent always **_over_** estimates the time needed to evacuate the friendlies before the target is blown." She shook her short, dark brown hair. "Illya calls it realistic planning. So do I."

"Twenty minutes, Lexie. It'll take at least 10 to set the charges and that gives us ten to make our escape. I want everybody out of here before you blow the target," Chris said, a serious expression on his handsome young face. "Understood?"

"Rodger dodger, chief," Lexie replied, adding a less than complimentary salute.

Chris contacted the other teams and synchronized the time frame. Gunfire around and above them lessened as Gamma Team set charges throughout the target.

"Seven minute mark," Chris said. "Copy," the team leaders replied.

"Ten minutes on the money, chief," Lexie said, giving the last charge a pat. "Clear the building."

_The Screaming Reds,_ she thought, eyes closed and fingers massaging her temples. _More than a migraine, much more than a hangover … brain tumor at least._

The office door opened silently. "Look's to me like you could use some aspirin and a good stiff drink."

Emerson smiled at the soft voice. "Joanna, my savior!"

"I'm not your savior, my girl. Even my Messiah Complex isn't big enough to save you," the middle-aged, former nun said, laughter coloring her words.

Emerson opened her eyes and squinted across the room. "Had lunch yet?"

Joanna helped herself to coffee. "I thought you were lunching with the Russian."

"Unfulfilled expectations, m'dear. Uncle Alex had other ideas."

"So, I'm second choice?" Joanna grinned, resting her hip on the edge of the cherry wood desk.

"How can you be second choice when you're available?" Emerson asked, rifling her desk drawer for aspirin. Finding the small bottle, she sighed with relief.

"Where?"

Emerson downed three of the small white pills with a sip of cold coffee and made a face. "Any place that doesn't cater to UNCLE personnel."

"Ah, Carl Matthews," Joanna said, fetching a fresh cup of coffee.

"Go easy, my sister!" Emerson resumed her massage. "How about … Garfunkel's? Great chicken soup. Pastrami on rye. Cold beer."

Joanna laughed. "Lead on, O Mistress of Wisdom."

The two women pushed through the late lunch crowd looking for a table in the back. "Emie!" a voice shouted from the counter. She smiled into the expressive face of Dov Garfunkel.

He hurried to her side. "Here," he said, clearing away the lunch of a young man who was clearly not finished eating. Dov's glare silenced the young Yeshiva student who hastily gathered his books and hurried out. Dov's big expressive hands cradled her face. "My Emie! Where is my beautiful smile?"

Joanna grinned as Emerson smiled for Dov. "It's been a long day, Dov. Very long."

He nodded. "Pastrami. Very lean. Pumpernickel, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside. Horseradish mustard. Homemade chips. Kosher dill on the side, yes?"

"Oh, yes!" Emerson sighed. Joanna nodded. "I'll have the same. And two beers, your choice."

Huge sandwiches appeared on equally huge platters and the beer in frozen mugs. "Eat!" Dov ordered, smiling that the women. He pinched Emerson's cheek. "Too skinny!"

"Too busy to eat, Dov," she said, offering a mock frown and rubbing her cheek.

"I talk to this Uncle Alex of yours! I tell him he works you too hard!"

"It's not just Uncle Alex," Joanna said, laughing at Dov's expressive temper. "She's running a household, too."

His face softened. "Ah, my babies. How are my babies, Emie?"

She fished in her purse and produced a packet of pictures. Dov grinned and pulled up a chair. "Anushka … beautiful, Emie. And, Tasha … beautiful!" He stopped at a photo of the twins. "Double blessings, yes? Such sweet babies!" He continued through the stack and his eyes widened. "Another little boy and a baby girl? You have been busy!" He seemed torn between asking a question and expressing amazement.

Emerson laughed. "No, no, Dov, these two aren't mine. They're Napoleon and Charlie's … Antony and Liz." She grinned. "If they're so beautiful, Dov, maybe you're available at 3 a.m. when none of them want to sleep? All of us could sure use some help!"

Dov nodded sagely. "They are smart. Smart does not sleep … no, my Emie. Your fault, yes? You are smart. The Russian, he is smart." He shrugged and grinned. "So, you have smart babies!" Having solved that conundrum he kissed her cheek and returned to the counter.

Joanna savored a chip. "God this place is good," she said, grinning at her friend. "Just what we need after wrangling obstinate Section 2 agents."

Emerson rolled her eyes and chewed on her pastrami. "You have no idea, Joanna! Maybe I'll just put a bullet through Henderson's head and say that my gun misfired. It'll be faster for both of us."

"I've heard that Carl can be …" Joanna searched for the word.

"Obnoxious?" Emerson offered, adding to her beer mug. "Stubborn? A dick? An asshole? A prick?"

"Em!" Joanna said, shaking her head. "Must I remind you to speak of our clients in a professional manner?"

"I am being professional." She grinned. "I could assign him to you, you know."

Joanna laughed and took Emerson's hand. "What kind of friend would I be if I took this opportunity for spiritual and professional growth away from you? This one tests you, Em. You'll learn a great deal."

Emerson shook her head and reached for her beer mug. "I'm beginning to think that if ignorance is bliss then I'm over due." She grinned. "You know, you would have made one hell of a mistress of novices, _Sister_ Joanna."

Joanna grinned in return. "And so I was. In my time, I cranked out some of the fiercest nuns on the continent. Tough and hard as nails. School teachers, one and all."

"Pity the poor first graders!" Emerson selected a chip. "Do you guys really take special training with rulers?" She ducked the wadded paper napkin lobed at her head. "Sorry I asked!"

"So, tell me about Carl," Joanna asked, sipping her beer.

"He's pissed. He thinks that all of us, particularly Napoleon and Waverly, are out to end his career."

"Are you?"

"Joanna!"

"I know you, Emerson. It's a legit question."

Emerson shifted in her chair and played with her sandwich. "His record is good overall. Willing to takes chances. Doesn't mind risking his neck … or that of his partner." She paused, popped a chip into her mouth, and shrugged. "In many ways he's not unlike the best of the best. But, he's hotheaded, stubborn, and impulsive. This time he went too far and cost Jeff Matthews his life. To answer your question, Joanna, I'll end his career if I believe that he's dangerous, but I don't want to.

"How do you know that it was Henderson's fault? Just because he's senior agent doesn't mean that he could control the outcome."

"True enough, Joanna, but Henderson came out of it without so much as a scratch. They needed dental records to identify Matthews."

Joanna frowned. "What happened?"

"They were on assignment in Morocco, always a fun spot. Lots of heat and desert and, in this case, Thrush. Henderson sent Matthews in alone to infiltrate a crew of local workers even though Matthews was blond and blue-eyed." She rolled her eyes. "Didn't speak the language, either. At any rate, Matthews got nabbed, beaten, drugged, tortured … the usual scenario." She took a drink of her beer. "By the time Henderson and back-up arrived it was too late."

"Dental records?" Joanna asked, shaking her head.

"Matthews died of massive head trauma. Enrico del Gamma Ore, Thrush lead agent, turned one of his henchmen loose on him when they couldn't break his conditioning. Broke every bone his face and skull at least once."

"And you think that Henderson screwed up?"

"He sent in a 25-year-old agent, alone I remind you, still wet behind the ears. A blond and blue-eyed kid with no language capabilities," her dark blue eyes expressed her anger.

"Allow me to play Devil's Advocate, Em," Joanna said, finishing her beer. "Illya's done much the same thing." The older woman waved off Emerson's look of distain. "Jeff Matthews might have been young, but he was no rookie. You have no way of knowing that Henderson's choices cost Matthews his life."

"You can't compare Illya to Jeff. Illya has gone in as an Arab and he's even managed to masquerade as an Asian, but he speaks the languages and some how manages to convince the bad guys. And, you can't compare Carl to Napoleon. Doesn't even equate to apples and oranges with me." She shrugged. "My boys do some very stupid things, but they cover each other to the hilt. I don't believe that Henderson did his job."

"Not every team is Illya and Napoleon," Joanna observed, reaching for the bill only to have her hand slapped away.

"No, and mores the pity," Emerson said, pulling money from her purse. "But, they should be, don't you think? Willing to put it on the line for each other? Mark and April, Pete and Jack all do, that's how they work." She stood and grabbed her purse. "I'm just saying that Henderson didn't … and Matthews paid the price."

Dov refuse payment so Emerson gave the check and the cash to his granddaughter. "College fund, Devorah," she whispered, hugging the teenager. "See you soon, Dov! Shalom!"

The women walked back to headquarters ignoring the black UNCLE sedan that prowled behind them. "Wouldn't it make more sense to use the car, Em?" Joanna asked as they slipped into a used bookstore. The car stopped and an agent climbed out.

"I feel like a hot house flower most of the time, Joanna," she said. "I understand the need for security, but I get tired of being hauled every place I go!" She laughed. "Any way, my minder is just one row over. We're safe."

Emerson collected an armload of children's books in several languages and found a first edition of Dostoevsky in the original Russian. Joanna picked up several theology texts. "You're making me feel like a piker, Joanna," Emerson said, taking her shopping bag.

"The car," Joanna said, as the agent opened the rear passenger door. "I'm not schlepping this load of books back to headquarters!"

Emerson laughed, following Joanna into the rear seat. "Tough Mistress of Novice's my ass! Can't even handle a little shopping trip!"

Joanna narrowed her eyes. "Remember, I'm lethal with a ruler!"

The agents noted three Thrush types as they boarded their flight at LaGuardia. Once airborne, Napoleon toured the jet and picked out two more among the passengers.

"We've got company," he whispered, winking at a particularly lovely young stewardess.

"Little birdies?" Illya asked, reclining his seat and closing his eyes.

"Yup. Poor buggers are traveling coach," Napoleon said, ordering drinks. "Don't go to sleep just yet, IK."

"I am tired, Napoleon," Illya said, his voice grumpy.

"Daddy Duty getting to you?"

"No," Illya replied, tucking the briefcase against the wall of the jet. "Working with you is getting to me."

"Let's not be surly, old son," Napoleon chuckled. "How can you be grumpy when we're going to Paris, first-class no less, with a gaggle of gorgeous stewardii?"

Illya groaned, but accepted his glass of vodka. "I do not believe that the plural of 'stewardess' is 'stewardii'."

"It is where I come from." Napoleon sipped his scotch on the rocks and admired the derriere of another young beauty.

"I will make a note to discuss this with Mrs. Solo," Illya said, finishing his drink and closing his eyes. He was asleep in seconds.

Carl Matthews reported to Emerson's office as meek as a lamb. It made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention.

"I'm ready for Round 2," he said, dropping his considerable bulk in a leather wing chair.

Emerson grinned. "Stretch out on the couch this time. You're going to need to be as comfortable as possible."

"That's not possible," he said, moving to the couch and filling every inch with his long frame. She turned the wing chair to face the couch and sat down, file in her lap.

"You took the pills prescribed by medical, right?"

"Didn't want to."

"But, you did take them. If not, then we're behind schedule," Emerson said, opening her note pad to a fresh page and making a few notes.

"I took them," he said, testiness clear in his voice.

"We Section 2 people despise pills and shots, Carl. All of us," she said, glancing at his face. "I prefer to use them to get things started … take the edge off."

"They don't make anything that'll take this edge off," he said, frowning at her. She chuckled.

"Understood. Now, close your eyes and relax … as much as possible. In a few minutes we'll travel back to Morocco and begin to take things apart."

He groaned at the thought. "How about having me hypnotized? That might make this easier, don't you think?"

"Section 2 agents are notoriously resistant to hypnosis, Carl. We're too flamingly independent," she said, watching as he closed his eyes and settled in. "Anyway, I need you to be sharp and hypnosis can cloud things."

She left him for a few minutes, pouring another cup of coffee, dimming the lights, and lighting several small candles. She went out and checked on messages, chatted with Susie, and made a couple of phone calls. "Don't disturb us, Susie, unless someone's about to die … real arterial bleed stuff. Understand?" Susie grinned and nodded.

When Emerson returned to her office Carl seemed to be asleep. She smiled and kicked off her shoes and folded into the wing chair, her feet tucked beneath her.

"Carl … you're in Morocco with Jeff. You're making the final plans regarding the Thrush installation," her voice was low, soft, and smoky. "Tell me about Morocco, Carl."

"Hot. Fucking hot," he murmured, his handsome face creasing in a frown. "God, I hate this place. Stinks like camel piss."

"You can smell it. Sweaty bodies, obstinate camels, beat-up old cars. The market place is packed, isn't it? The vendors hawking everything under the sun. Jeff's with you. You're looking for your contact … "

"Girl. Young. Maybe late teens," Carl whispered, his right hand reaching for his holster. "Too fucking young for this shit." His right hand rests where the grip of his UNCLE P-38 would be, if he hadn't been relieved of it. "Amira. She's beautiful."

Emerson grinned at the description. "Where are you, Carl? In a vendor's stall? A coffee shop? Her home?"

"Coffee. Her uncle has a coffee place. Crowded. Smoking that goddamned Turkish shit that they call tobacco. Stinks worse than camel dung." He paused and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "Don't know how they wear those caftans's … too hot. Too hot."

"What is Amira saying, Carl?"

He grimaced. "Takes us out back … kitchen … or what passes for one in Morocco. Says the installation isn't too far into the desert. Less than half a day by camel. Closer if we have a jeep or truck."

"Can she help you find a way into the installation? What's the plan?"

"Man plans and the gods laugh," he said his voice thick with sarcasm. "Says we can get in through the front gate … if we want to go in with the workers. Her brother's are part of a construction crew. It's hard, dangerous work. Lots of locals have died there."

"Did you send Jeff in with the locals, Carl?"

"Volunteered. The little shit volunteered," he said, his fingers worrying each other. "Shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have."

She sipped her coffee, allowing him to fall silent for a few minutes. The agitation passed.

"When did Jeff join the work gang?"

"Work gang. Um … the next morning. We died his hair black and he used contact lenses to make his eyes dark." Carl's face screwed into a grimace. "He bathed in something to make his skin darker, like a suntan or something. Amira brought us some clothes for him …" The huge agent ran his hands over his face. "Shouldn't have let him go in. Shouldn't have."

"Carl, Jeff knew the risks. Did he blend well enough with the locals?"

He shook his head. "I was too big … too tall … you know? Nobody would have believed me as an Arab." He paused and his fingers worried again. "Too fucking big, see?"

"You are larger than the average man, Carl," Emerson said, smiling at the thought of the 6 foot 8 inch, red haired American masquerading as a Moroccan worker. "Jeff looked the part, am I right?"

"Sure. Looked just like one of Amira's brother's. Small, dark, quiet. Slipped right into the facility."

"Did Jeff express any concerns to you about his assignment?"

"Concerns? Jeff? Hell, he'd walk in the jaws of hell without thinking about it twice." Carl's huge hands covered his face and he sobbed. "No fear. Never afraid."

"You were afraid, though, weren't you?"

"No fear! If he's not afraid, I'm not afraid. Can't be. Too dangerous!" He choked on the words.

"Where are you, Carl?"

"Hillside. Above the installation. Watching."

"How long did you watch, Carl? What's happening around you?"

"Me and Amira … she came along. Good shot, that girl. We watched the work crew enter. No problems. None."

"How long is Jeff inside?"

"Hours. All day. Just after dawn until nearly dark. It's hard work. Moving dirt and rocks. Construction work. He found a cache of explosives." Carl grinned at the memory. "Little fucker liked to blow up things, ya' know?"

Emerson grinned at the thought. _Must be something about blond agents and explosives._

"He returned the next day?"

"And the day after … five days of working in that hell hole. Came back to the hotel every night, beat up and tired." He frowned. "All I did was watch."

"That was your job."

His size 16 shoes pressed against the arm of the couch and something popped. "Some fucking job. I'm the senior agent. Should of been me in there, not Jeff. Too young. Too small."

"I remind you that he knew of the risks, Carl."

Carl came off the couch, his huge feet hitting the floor with a resounding thud, his back pressed against the cushions. "Risks! We all know the risks! But, not this time! Nobody told us about Del Gamma Ore! If I'd known that bastard was in there …"

Emerson's hand rested on Carl's. "You didn't know. Nobody did."

He paced the room. "Should've known. That's my job, goddamn it! I'm the senior agent! I'm supposed to have all the facts … all the intel … and I didn't. I killed my partner."

Emerson rose and intercepted him. "You had as much intel as possible, Carl. It wasn't your fault."

"How the hell do you know? You weren't there! You didn't see what I saw!"

She pointed to the couch. "Then sit down and tell me."

He glared at her.

"Sit down and tell yourself what happened, Carl."

Illya and Napoleon arrived in Paris at dusk. The 'City of Lights' glowed beneath them.

Illya pressed his forehead against the small oval window. "Such a beautiful city," he said. "I have forgotten how much I miss her."

"How much you miss **_her_**?" Napoleon chuckled, imagining his staid partner in his Sorbonne days. "You even refer to Paris as female. Somehow, IK, I can't quite see you in Paris. All those beautiful women … and you with your nose in a book!

"Leave it to you to reduce Paris to beautiful women," Illya retorted, glaring at his partner. "She is a woman … beautiful and mysterious. Perhaps, one day, I will show you Paris as I know her."

The plane rumbled to a halt. "That should take all of about five minutes," Solo commented, releasing his seatbelt and standing up. "Shall we loose our little friends?"

The lovely young stewardess smiled as she led them to the exit. "I do so hope that the experimental surgery for your brother is successful," she whispered, shaking her head sadly toward Illya.

"Experimental surgery, Napoleon?" Illya hissed. Napoleon took his arm and squeezed pushing him down the aisle.

"As do we, Monique," Napoleon said, a grim expression settling on his handsome face. "If it fails … then we shall have to institutionalize him, I'm afraid." He smiled sadly. "Merci tellement beaucoup. Votre bonté a facilité cette épreuve." (Thank you so very much. Your kindness has made this ordeal a little easier.)

"Pas du tout, monsieur. C'était mon plaisir," (Not at all, sir. It was my pleasure.) she said, blocking the exit and holding back an increasingly surly crowd of passengers.

"What fable did you concoct this time, Napoleon?" Illya asked, as he was steered across the tarmac toward an UNCLE black limo.

Napoleon laughed at the consternation on his partner's face. "I merely told the dear girl that you suffer from some unfortunate brain malady, hence your unresponsive nature."

Illya frowned. "What is the eventual outcome of this 'brain malady'?"

Napoleon grinned wickedly. "Insanity, of course."

"Oh good, I thought it might be something serious," Illya said. "Wake me when we get to headquarters."

Chris Maynard signaled the other teams and Gamma hurried toward the east exit. They ran through stacks of crates, weaving in and out, not completely sure that all the guards had been captured. Passing beneath a metal catwalk leading to offices on the upper floors, Lexie Donova cried out and collapsed, a bullet in her back. Dimitri picked her up as Chris covered them. Two Thrush guards fell to the concrete floor.

Chris caught up with Dimitri. "Breathing?" he asked.

"She is moaning. Good sign," Dimitri said, taking shelter behind an I-beam while Chris shoved open a heavy steel door and pushed them onto the dock. More gunfire came from the upper levels of a warehouse across the dock, this time Alpha and Beta teams returned fire.

Dimitri ran to a panel truck, handed Lexie to the medics, and slammed the doors, pounding on them to let the driver know to move out. The shooters fell silent. He joined Chris near a metal shipping crate and watched the senior agent count the seconds. A ball of fire consumed the warehouse followed by hundreds of smaller explosions as bullets, rockets, and grenades went up.

The three teams gathered around the two remaining panel trucks and two cars. "Report," Chris ordered. Alpha team reported two injuries, neither serious. Beta reported three injuries, one serious. Gamma reported one serious injury. "That's half the team injured," Chris said, shaking his head. "We've got to do better next time."

The young agents sobered for a moment, watching the burning building reflected in the harbors water, worrying for their fallen colleagues. Chris smiled and clapped Dimitri on the shoulder. "We've accomplished our objective, though, and the wounds will heal. Good job, team. Let's get out of here before the locals show up and demand an explanation!"

Dimitri pushed open the driver's side door and swung into the seat. A single bullet from a high-powered sniper rifle shattered the window.

The briefcase and Illya's left wrist lay on a steel table sandwiched behind two blast proof panels. The technician, who had introduced himself as Claude, stood behind the second panel, his face pressed against a small window as he fumbled with the remote control gloves.

"What is he doing?" Illya asked his voice strained and thin.

"He's trying to fit three specially designed keys into the locks. I think he has to do it in a specific order and then turn the correct key in the correct direction." Napoleon glanced at his partner, thinking that he looked even paler than usual.

"I certainly hope that he is not dyslexic."

Napoleon chuckled. He always appreciated the Russian's dry sense of humor, but never more than at times like this when everything balanced on a very thin thread. "Take care, my man!" Napoleon shouted as the technician dropped a key. "That thing is likely to detonate and blow us all to kingdom come!"

"Ne rongez pas ainsi, M. Solo!" the technician said, sweat beading on his brow. "Je sais ce que je fais." (Do not fret so, Mr. Solo! I know what I am doing.)

"Famous last words," Illya muttered, closing his eyes and turning his head.

"Là! Tous ont fini!" (There! All finished!)

Illya sighed, pulling his hand through the panel. "You can carry the case next time," he said, rubbing the red mark that circled his wrist. "And, you can be the insane brother, too."

Napoleon laughed and hugged his partner. "Our flight leaves in an hour. Let's get out of here."

They stopped at reception prepared to turn in their badges and collect their boarding passes.

"Mr. Kuryakin," the receptionist said, offering a sly smile to the blond Russian, "you are to contact Mr. Waverly before you depart. You may use the office just inside the hallway."

Illya rolled his eyes and disappeared. Napoleon waited and flirted with the receptionist. "Probably another exciting assignment," he said, grinning at her. "That's how it is for us Section Two agents."

She smiled and turned to answer the phone. "I'll send him in, Mr. Kuryakin." Napoleon was already in the hallway.

"Illya!" Napoleon supported his ashen faced partner to the desk chair and carefully lowered him. "Tovarisch, what's happened?" he asked, kneeling next to his friend.

"Dima," Illya whispered. He looked at Napoleon, tears welling in his blue eyes. "Dead."

Emerson smiled as she stuffed the courier pack that would soon be en route to Dimitri. The girls had selected their favorite drawings, Anushka added black and white photographs of her schoolmates, and both girls wrote letters. Emerson sent a letter with portraits of the girls and pictures of the family. Finally, she slipped two cartons of Winston cigarettes, Dima's favorite, into the canvas bag. Dropping the bag into a lock box, she handed it over to the courier waiting to take it to LaGuardia.

"Take good care of this," she said, smiling at the young man. "It's filled with priceless works of art!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, smiling as he loaded the box on his cart and wheeled it away.

She glanced at the clock and followed him out to the empty main office, coffee cup in hand. Stopping at the coffee bar, she filled her cup and lit a cigarette.

The phone rang and she picked up. "Cates."

"Mr. Waverly wishes to see you immediately," Kristianna said, concern in her voice.

Emerson swallowed. "What's happened?"

"Immediately, Emerson," Kristianna answered and rang off.

She slipped on her jacket and walked briskly to the elevators joining a half dozen young agent's fresh from the firing range, but ignored them and their banter. They exchanged glances and grew quiet.

Kristianna nodded and Emerson entered what she jokingly called 'The Inner Sanctum.' One look at Alexander Waverly told her the news was bad.

"Emerson, we have received grave news from Riga," the older man said, fingering a bright red folder.

"Twelve agents from the Riga office successfully neutralized a Thrush force and destroyed a warehouse used to store illegal arms shipments. Seven agents were wounded in the assault. Unfortunately, two agents …" He paused and opened the red file. "Um … Agent Alexandra Donova, explosives expert … and Mr. Kuryakin … were killed by sniper fire as they were escaping the building."

"Dima?" she asked, instantly realizing how stupid she sounded.

"Yes," Waverly said, reaching for his pipe. "Most unfortunate."

"Most unfortunate," she repeated Waverly assessment tonelessly staring out the windows. "Most unfortunate? What is it that Napoleon says about Illya?" She glared at her boss. "Ah, yes, 'Always the master of the understatement'. I believe Illya cedes that title to you, Alexander!"

"Emerson!" Waverly said, his bushy eyebrows shooting up.

"Dimitri Kuryakin is dead, Alexander. Dead!" She raged, pacing the office. "And the best you can come up with is 'most unfortunate'!" She stopped next to his chair. "Most unfortunate my ass, Alexander! It's a goddamned tragedy!"

Waverly paled in the face of her anger. "Yes, well then. I am sending Mr. Kuryakin to Riga to collect his brother's body," Waverly said, clenching the unlit pipe in his teeth.

She walked toward the door. "I'll go with him, Alexander."

"Not possible, Emerson," he replied. "Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Solo are in Paris on assignment. They will collect the body and return immediately."

She frowned at Waverly. "How fucking convenient for the budget," she spat. "How convenient for you."

"That will be enough, Agent Cates!" Waverly said, his voice rising with anger and indignation.

The door opened and Emerson disappeared into the darkened hallway.

Friends and agents filled the chapel at UNCLE headquarters. Candelabra glowed casting soft light on a photograph of Dimitri, an arrangement of white roses, and the simple white marble jar containing his ashes.

Emerson stood alone in the sacristy, fastening her flax colored robe and carefully donning the white stole embroidered with a gold stylized cross, the word Pax in blue, and an olive branch. _Peace,_ she thought, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. _There is no peace to be had here, God. Only sorrow and loss._ Her fingertips traced the word. _Pax._

She thought back to the many conversations she had shared with Dima about religion, faith, and theology. He had had lots of questions and soon found that Emerson was more than happy to entertain them. While he found the whole concept of Jesus as a sacrifice for the sins of the world ridiculous, he wondered at the teachings of this itinerant Rabbi.

"He was trouble, yes?" Dimitri asked one evening over tea at the penthouse kitchen table.

"Yes," Emerson answered, grinning at the eager young man. "Jesus got into plenty of trouble with just about everybody. Many people think that the authorities didn't understand him and his message, but I believe that they did understand and it cost him his life."

"He was good man," Dimitri said, nodding his head. "A good, young man killed by bad men."

Emerson held his hand. "Killed by people who were afraid of him. They were afraid of losing their positions of power, afraid of losing their control over the people. Still happens … all the time."

"Da," he said his eyes dark and brooding. "The Soviet does this, kills its good, young people."

Emerson sighed. "Happens here, too, Dimitri. I would very much like to tell you otherwise, but you would know it isn't true." She refilled the cups. "Fear is a powerful thing and fearful people with power are evil."

"It is better here, Em," he said, stirring jam into his tea. A beautiful smile graced his face. "Some day it will be better in the Soviet."

"Your lips to God's ear," she said, smiling at him.

Alexander Waverly opened the sacristy door and stepped in. "Shall we begin?" Emerson nodded, still angry at his response to Dimitri's death.

Waverly spoke first, telling of Dimitri's work in the Soviet and for UNCLE. Of his desire to return to fieldwork and of his time at Survival School. He praised Dimitri's bravery and commitment to freedom even though it led to his death. He mentioned Anya and Natasha and Dimitri's love for them, and of their new life together in New York. He spoke of Sonya, Dimitri's wife who had also died too soon. His gaze settled on Illya as he spoke of the reunion of brothers separated for so many years. The old man ignored the dark rage that smoldered in Illya's blue eyes.

Chris Maynard spoke of the young man he had come to know as colleague and friend, of Dima's personal sorrows, how he missed his wife and his daughters, and how much he would miss Dimitri. He spoke of Dimitri's joy whenever packages arrived from the girls. He smiled, remembering the pictures and artwork that decorated their small office. He spoke of Dimitri's devotion to his work and his love of freedom.

Emerson walked to the pulpit and smiled at Illya who held Tasha on his lap, his arm wrapped around Anya. She saw the rage in his eyes ebb away, replaced by deep sorrow.

She recounted the Biblical story of David and Jonathan, two men who were brothers in heart and soul, two men who loved each other passionately. "Dimitri and Illya … Dima and Illyusha … share such a love. Heart and soul, kindred in all things, in all times. The fact that Dimitri has been so cruelly taken from us does not put an end … does not diminish … the love these brothers have for one another. The Apostle Paul tells us that love never ends, and now we struggle to believe that these words are true.

"Dima's death does not end his love for Anushka and Tasha. It does not end his love for Sonya. Dima's love, his energy, his devotion, his joy, his hope lives on in his daughters, in each of us … his family and his friends … and in the ideals of this organization." She glanced at Waverly who nodded.

"This is a bitter time. A wasteland. What the Psalmist called 'the valley of the shadow of death.' Our loss, our sorrow, our pain … is beyond expression." She paused and smiled sadly at the sea of faces. "We … Illya, our children, and I … are comforted by your love, by your presence here today. Your willingness to walk with us, to support us, through this valley of shadow gives us strength. Your love is the light in this impenetrable darkness. We depend on you and your love … more than you can ever know … to find our way out of the shadows and into the light."

Opening her well-worn Bible, the one she used and abused in seminary and ministry, she read from Psalm 139. "O Lord, where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast. If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night," even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you."

She closed the book and walked to the center of the chancel. "Dimitri Nickovetch Kuryakin understood evil. He understood that good men and women sometimes die in the struggle against the powerful who seek to enslave the powerless. He believed that his work in Riga would one day bring freedom to his people.

"Dimitri's work is left unfinished. It falls to us now. He leaves it to us, trusting that we share his vision … his devotion to making the world a better place for his children … our children ... for each of us. May we be worthy of his trust, may we share in his vision, and may we be equal to his devotion."

She nodded to Illya who walked alone up the steps to the altar. The blond head bowed for a moment and then lifted the marble jar and took his place between an honor guard of Napoleon, April, Mark, Peter Wilson, Jack Ahern, and Chris Maynard. Emerson followed lifting Tasha from Charlie's arms and holding Anya's hand.

The entire assembly stood as one as they passed.

More to come …


End file.
